Scalextric Circular

Dear FW,

I’m over thinking again,

started drinking,


The matter is not grey.

It’s a red screaming sports car,

demanding attention, constant incoherence, engine-revving,

going nowhere,

and not in gear.

Repeating, repeating, repeating

the same track,

Scalextric circular.

Round, round, round,

‘til heated metal burns

and at the turns,

the car flies off its needle.



into the sofa

onto the floor.


It’s not suprising

I’m over analysing.

On the brink of something.

A cliff edge?

A chasm?

An abyss?

What’s amiss?

There’s nothing technically wrong.

Everything is wrong.


A physical pain.

What is a runner who cannot run?

A player who cannot play?

I still function, but badly.

There’s no escape,

no let up,

no relief or release.

When the things that scare me come,

I cannot run

but round we go.

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